Until Tuesday: A Wounded Warrior and the Golden Retriever Who Saved Him

by Luis Carlos Montalvan

  For the rest of the winter, we went to Rainbow Park. We went between midnight and five in the morning, when the world was quiet. The streetlights buzzed, and every few minutes there was the soft whoosh of a car, but otherwise there was nothing but the thump of a tennis ball against a concrete wall and an occasional word of encouragement as a sleepless veteran leaned on his cane in the shadows and his dog got smoked.

  CHAPTER 15

  CATS AND DOGS

  Love must be learned, and learned again; there is no end to it.

  —KATHERINE ANNE PORTER

  Two months into our lives together, Tuesday and I were getting along great. We were building a healthy respect for each other, working on our bond, and Tuesday was beginning to realize this was more than a fleeting relationship. Some service dogs sit around watching television, because that’s what their owners do. Tuesday traveled to Washington, D.C., played in Rainbow Park, and rode the subway every few days to Columbia and the Manhattan VA hospital. He was an active dog, and he liked it. He liked it even more that I was affectionate and attentive to him. It was never a matter of him deferring to me, because I was the “pack leader” from the moment we met, but I think he started to appreciate me as a partner after Rainbow Park.

  Still, there were a few bumps, especially in social situations. I had trouble, I am ashamed to admit, with Middle Easterners. If a person appeared Middle Eastern, my mind went into overdrive, searching for signs of danger. That’s racist, I understand, but it wasn’t hatred. Not at all. I love my Iraqi friends and I respect the Muslim world. It’s just that 100 percent of the people who had ever tried to kill me were Middle Eastern, and there had been plenty of them. I spent the better part of two years studying faces in Al-Anbar, Baghdad, and Nineveh provinces trying to determine who would next attack, and I couldn’t stop doing that in America, too. That’s a symptom of PTSD, the inability to act differently in ordinary society than you did in combat. My mind told me it didn’t matter if the young Middle Eastern men were well dressed and on their way to work in Manhattan; that could be a diversion. It didn’t matter if they were women, especially if they were wearing head scarves. Enemy fighters often dressed as women and besides, women had been known to blow themselves to smithereens. All those virgins in heaven were a smoke screen; the real reasons for suicide bombings, like most of the other atrocities committed in the world, were poverty, propaganda, stupidity, and anger, and those reasons weren’t confined to the male sex.

  Tuesday, meanwhile, had a problem with cats. He wasn’t afraid of them, but he didn’t trust them. He thought they were crazy, and their lack of logical actions and intentions, at least from his point of view, completely freaked him out. Lu had told me, jokingly, about Tuesday’s cautious relationship with a cat that lived near ECAD, but I don’t think he really made up his mind about cats until the incident in Sunset Park.

  It was about eight thirty at night, a difficult time for Tuesday and me because the streets were still crowded. We were passing George’s Restaurant on Fifth Avenue when, out of nowhere, a mangy alley cat jumped out of the bushes and landed on Tuesday’s back. I mean, it leapt in full attack mode, with claws out, hissing and tearing. I was so surprised, I almost fell down. All my hypervigilance, and I never saw the cat coming. And it was coming for blood. Fortunately, it landed on Tuesday’s vest, but it dug so far into the fabric that Tuesday couldn’t shake it off. He was twisting and growling, trying to snap at it, but the cat was in that place on your back where you can’t reach, and it wasn’t letting go. I started swinging at the cat with my cane, but Tuesday was moving so much that I missed him two or three times. Finally Tuesday twisted like a rodeo bull and the cat went flying, landing on all four feet by the bushes. It hunched its shoulders, collected itself for a moment, then turned and lunged at Tuesday again.

  “Are you kidding me?” I said.

  The cat was a foot from Tuesday, hissing and swiping at him. Tuesday had his head lowered, growling to warn it away. I was pulling on the leash, trying to keep Tuesday from hurting the crazy animal, and leaning on my cane to keep my balance. I kept saying, “Get lost, you stupid cat. Get out of here!” waving my cane as much as I could, and I guess it was a show because soon a little crowd gathered around us. They were all saying, Shoo cat, shoo, half of them in a foreign language and most of the rest in broken English. An Asian man showed up with a broom, and between the cat’s circling, Tuesday’s growling, the swinging broom, and my cane, it was a three-ring circus. Finally, the cat retreated to the bushes, completely unharmed, and Tuesday and I retreated to our apartment, where he gave me a look as if to say, See, I told you—cats are crazy.

  So it wasn’t an auspicious moment when I walked into the pet store a few weeks later and saw a woman wearing a hijab in one of the two aisles. I admit I panicked, just a little. “That way, Tuesday, that way,” I said, pushing him toward the other aisle.

  Around the corner, Tuesday froze. There was a cat in the middle of the aisle. Oh crap. What now? Tuesday wasn’t going any farther. I wasn’t going back. The cat stared at us lazily, with no intention of leaving. So Tuesday and I stood there, cowering in the corner by the canned meats display, until the perfectly nice woman in the hijab left, which I swear, in my state, seemed to take three weeks. It would be an embarrassing story if it weren’t so emblematic of how Tuesday and I lived back then. We had our little problems, like everyone else.

  On balance, though, Tuesday was a social dog. Much more social than me. He didn’t want anything to do with cats, but he had an innate curiosity about everything else, especially squirrels. There was a section of the Columbia campus that was swarming with squirrels, and with the start of the new semester I started walking Tuesday past so that he could stop and stare at them. He wanted to run. He was almost trembling with the excitement of it—which often made him pee, by the way, although I don’t know if that was biological, coincidence, or an intentional marking of this majestic squirrel-chasing sanctuary—but I couldn’t let him off the leash. He was my working dog; daydreams of romping were the most I could offer.

  Still, I knew by January that change was coming to our tidy cocoon. For weeks, whenever Tuesday and I arrived home, we heard little feet inside the apartment of my landlord, Mike Chung, whose first-floor apartment was across from the front door. The footsteps started slowly, then built to a fast clicking on the linoleum floor, then ended with a sudden thump against the door that always made Tuesday startle backward. After a short silence, which involved much sniffing from Tuesday, the scrambling would begin, accompanied by a high whining and the scratching of claws on the floor, as the creature on the other side tried to dig its way under the door.

  “Come on, Tuesday,” I’d say, pulling him toward the narrow staircase. He always held back, staring at the opening under the door, but as soon as his attention broke he was the old Tuesday again, walking slowly beside me so that I could use him to brace myself on the stairs.

  One day, while I was working at my desk, I noticed Tuesday pop up from a drowsy afternoon sprawl, flip his ears to attention, then stare at the door. A few seconds later, I heard quick little footsteps on the staircase followed by heavy panting at the door.

  This was it. The creature was outside.

  But nothing came of it, much to Tuesday’s disappointment. When it happened again, Tuesday looked at me pleadingly, but I shook my head no. The animal scratched, then whimpered, and I heard heavier footsteps on the stairs.

  Don’t knock, I thought. Don’t knock.

  It wasn’t that Tuesday couldn’t have friends. We were past our two-month bonding period, and I knew he accepted me as his alpha dog. My hesitation was more personal. I felt comfortable having Tuesday with me, just the two of us, and I didn’t want to be disturbed. I wanted to keep our exclusive time together, and our safe haven in the building, intact. I knew eventually I would reconnect with the larger world, and that Tuesday would be my guide back, but I wasn’t ready yet.

  Tuesday seemed so genuinely excited, th
ough, that I knew I couldn’t keep him cooped up for long. I loved him too much for that. So with less and less reluctance, I listened for the little feet on the staircase, the soft whimper, and the heavy tread. Sometimes I felt glad when I heard a female voice say, “Come on, Welly. Let’s go.” Other times, I felt disappointed. I wasn’t going to initiate contact, but I was ready to open the door.

  So it was with some relief that I finally heard the knock. It was Huang, my landlord Mike’s wife. “Can Tuesday play with Wellington?” she asked.

  I looked down. Standing beside her was a muscular little French bulldog no more than a third the size of Tuesday. It was mostly white, with a few brown patches, bowlegs, and a classic bulldog face: smushed snout, bugged-out eyes, floppy jowls, and the most determined low-lip scowl I had ever seen. I’ve got to admit, the dog had personality.

  “Sure,” I said, trying not to laugh. My Cambodian landlord had a French bulldog with a British name and a big city attitude—very New York. “Tuesday,” I said, turning to him, “meet Welli . . .”

  Boom. Before I even finished the introduction, Tuesday was out the door. He didn’t stop for the traditional butt-sniff of friendship, either. He bolted straight out and bowled Wellington right over onto his backside. Welly jumped up with a quick bark, stuck his lower lip out, then jumped on Tuesday who, three times his size, enthusiastically pushed him back onto his rear. They wrestled their way along the landing, little Welly trying to jump on big Tuesday, and Tuesday always managing to push him back until, suddenly, they disappeared down the stairs in a bundle of legs, fur, and snouts.

  By the time Huang and I reached the stairs, Tuesday was on his feet and leaping back up the staircase four steps at a time. Wellington was right behind him, hopping on each step with his little bowlegs, but what he lacked in size he made up for in determination. Tuesday took one look at me from the top of the stairs, his tongue out and his eyebrows bobbing, before Wellington hit him in the side, knocking him back into the wall. Immediately, they were at it again, rolling and snapping at each other, Tuesday on his back and Wellington bouncing around his head. Welly got an ear in his teeth; Tuesday threw a paw over Welly’s shoulder. They snorted and chortled and pushed each other back and forth, and then, suddenly, they were rolling down the stairs again. I looked down to the bottom and Tuesday was sitting there, panting, a big goofy grin on his face.

  “Where’s Welly, Tuesday?”

  Tuesday stood up and there was crazy-eyed Wellington sprawled out beneath him. The little dog was already breathing hard through that smushed nose of his, but he was a gamer. He sprang to his feet and sprinted up the stairs, with Tuesday right behind, chomping at his tail.

  Huang started to laugh. So did I. It was hilarious, really, watching this muscular little dog run circles around Tuesday. Wellington had the energy, but Tuesday had the smarts, boxing him playfully into a corner and then battering him with his head while Welly tried to grab Tuesday’s ears and jam them into his mouth.

  “I think they like each other,” Huang said.

  “I think you’re right.”

  After that, it was on like Donkey Kong. Every time we walked into the building, it seemed, Mike and Huang’s door would fly open and Welly would come tearing out. Tuesday would brace for the impact and then throw the little bulldog to the ground, nipping at his belly. Wellington would shoot up the stairs with Tuesday chugging after him, then both of them would come racing down again while Mike and I, and occasionally Huang, stood at the bottom of the stairs laughing.

  One time, Tuesday came rolling down the stairs covered in white dust and bits of plaster. Even from the bottom of the stairs, I could see the dent where he had hit the wall. Mike laughed it off.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll fix it.”

  I was a good tenant. I was extremely quiet—never had a single guest over, didn’t play music or own a television, rarely talked to myself in more than a mutter, pathologically neat, and always paid the rent on time. Mike liked me for those reasons, but until Welly and Tuesday starting playing we hadn’t exchanged more than a few words. After the roughhousing started, we often hung out in the hallway, chatting. He was a nice guy, a survivor of the Cambodian killing fields, and the father of two grown children, and I’m sure he’d be surprised to hear that, for a few months, he was my best friend in New York. At least, he was the only person I talked to on a regular basis.

  Mike enjoyed our time together, too. I know he did, because he must have fixed the wall at the top of the stairs ten or twelve times over the next few months, and he laughed every time. “They like it,” he said. “Let them play.”

  And like it they did. I mean, these were two enthusiastic dogs, and they loved to go after each other. They sprinted, even though the staircase was only a few feet wide, and when they hit each other, they hit hard. Wellington was small, but he was a muscular brute.

  “He runs like Emmitt Smith,” Mike said proudly. And it was true. Emmitt Smith, the great Dallas Cowboys running back, had a low center of gravity and a powerful running style that relied on quick cuts. Welly ran the same way, turning Tuesday around as he plowed relentlessly from side to side, except he was bowlegged, twitchy, and incessantly shook his behind like he was blending margaritas with his stubby tail. When they wrestled, they worked hard at getting the upper hand, and when they fell down the steps they rolled hard, head over tail, still snapping and clawing, with no thought of stopping until they hit the floor.

  I soon realized that if Tuesday and I were going out, I needed to leave an extra half hour in case Wellington mugged us. Twenty minutes were for the dogs to play. It usually took that long for Wellington to collapse, panting in exhaustion and sprawled out on the cool floor at the base of the stairs. Tuesday often joined him; he was usually smoked by then, too.

  The other ten minutes, unfortunately, were to clean the Welly-slobber out of Tuesday’s ears. Tuesday has big floppy golden retriever ears, and after Wellington bit and tugged at them for twenty minutes, they were dripping like dish towels. Tuesday was my buddy. I couldn’t let him out of the house like that. It had to be cold. And uncomfortable. And, um . . . gross.

  CHAPTER 16

  HOPE AND CHANGE

  You gain strength, courage and confidence by every

  experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. . . .

  You must do the thing which you think you cannot.

  —ELEANOR ROOSEVELT

  With Tuesday breaking the social ice with Wellington, and with my optimism about the future growing by the day, I decided to attend Barack Obama’s presidential inauguration on January 20, 2009. From a PTSD perspective, the event was potentially as disastrous as the party at my professor’s apartment in November: hot, loud, and crowded. And instead of twenty people, there would be twenty thousand. At least I wouldn’t be making a public presentation.

  But the situation was different, too. I was more comfortable with Tuesday, and we both knew much better how to handle public gatherings. I was no longer naïve about the challenges of a service dog, especially in a crowd, and I was mentally prepared to confront them. And perhaps most importantly, instead of being in a negative place about the event, I was ecstatic. The George W. Bush era was over (I won’t say Republican era, because the two have little in common), and I was enthusiastic about the new direction Obama was promising. Hope and change. Change and hope. In the three months since the election—the three months I had spent with Tuesday—I had lived the reality of those words.

  In the years since, like many people, I have been disappointed. I never thought things would change overnight. My life has taught me that only through continuous hard work, by progressing one step at a time over a protracted period of time, can worthwhile accomplishments be achieved, whether that’s training an army for combat or learning to thrive with war wounds and a service dog. I think the concept of hard work, in the end, was a major stumbling block for Bush. He never really worked for his rewards, especially as a young man, so he
didn’t understand how much hard work was involved in, for instance, invading a country and establishing a democracy in a deeply divided society where none had ever existed before. He assumed it would be easy, and he planned accordingly.

  President Obama, who came from a middle-class background, understood hard work. I think he appreciated our soldiers’ extraordinary daily effort and meant to do right by them. He increased the budget for the Department of Veterans Affairs, for instance, which has alleviated the problem of inadequate care for veterans, though, unfortunately, has not come close to solving it. But he missed the most important thing for me and a lot of other voters who were primarily interested in military affairs: he never demanded accountability. The commanders who wrecked the war effort through terrible planning and egotism, from Secretary Rumsfeld on down, were given a free pass. The real officers who created the environment of abuse at Abu Ghraib were never named, much less punished. Gen. Stanley McChrystal, a man deeply involved in the unconscionable lies about the death of Pat Tillman—a former professional football player turned Army Ranger (who was killed by friendly fire, as it turned out)—was the president’s handpicked leader for the war in Afghanistan. It’s like the country was staring over the cliff at the shattered remains of a bus, but Obama, like Bush before him, refused to acknowledge someone was driving it. Accountability indeed.